


Burnt Offering

by Nellancholy



Category: Warframe
Genre: Character Study, Depression, Gen, Nihilism, POV First Person, how pretentious of me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-18
Updated: 2018-06-18
Packaged: 2019-05-24 21:00:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14962100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nellancholy/pseuds/Nellancholy
Summary: There is nothing left.But maybe that's not a bad thing.





	Burnt Offering

I kneel before the window of the star-child’s quarters. A multitude of stars wink and flicker,burning hot yet indifferent to those whose lives revolve around them.

 

Thoughtlessly,I reach up,gently touching where my left eye would be,but my hand meets only solid alloy plating.

 

It is- I am a million times more sturdy than anything the Builders or the Traders could make.

 

I did not choose it.

 

But I did not refuse it,either.

 

And what lies beneath that plating…

 

The star-child saw the inside of me. And yet they regarded me not with fear,nor pity…but with trust.

 

I and they are rather alike,after all. Changed,shaped against our will,formed into blades with no purpose but destruction…and now,cast adrift with no purpose but our own.

 

Or at least,I am the blade. They are the hand.

 

Were the Archimedeans the brain?

 

Yet now,the hand without a mind grasps the blade,carving its own path through the void.

 

At that thought,my hand moves down,resting upon the nikana by my side.

 

I lift it up,holding it against the starlight.

 

The Cephalon called it Skiajati. I had never felt the need to give it a name,before. I carried out my purpose,selfless,thoughtless. And my blade did the same. That has never changed.

 

The somachord changes,playing a melody that I remember,for once. The fingerwork of the recording is flawless,precise; the mark of a master.

 

I was never able to perform it so well,but Isaah loved it anyway.

 

Isaah…

 

At that thought,something stirs in me.

 

Something I can no longer name.

 

Something that I can barely grasp,comprehend.

 

In this form,I can no longer feel.

 

Fear,anger…pain. All have long been cut away from me.

 

Perhaps it is ironic then,that when the baser feelings are burnt away,their dancing light casts shadows that put one’s more refined thoughts in sharp relief.

 

Justice,compassion…resolve.

 

If these are not built on my own base sensations,whence do they come?

 

Slowly,I draw the nikana. Its black blade gleams in the starlight.

 

I will never be free again. I accept that.

 

I will never rejoice,weep,or thunder again.

 

But in this vast sea of stars,there are many people who still might.

 

And if I am fated to have been born a blade,to live as a blade,and die as a blade,then I will allow this stream to carry me to my final end.

 

I slide the blade - Skiajati - back into its sheath with a snap.

 

There is still work to be done.


End file.
